


Fall

by SilverRollu



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Nightmares, Pre-Advent Children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 23:05:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4854026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverRollu/pseuds/SilverRollu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wishes there were screams. Instead he only hears the static between his own ears and the rise and fall of the flames as they grow and eat. Consume. Destroy</p><p>He wants to wake up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall

He is dreaming –

He is surrounded by flames, long and hungry by nature, and he is watching them devour the weather-worn wood and bricks of his hometown. It had been beautifully rustic in its own way, and something about the way orange and red dance on burned rubble makes his stomach curl. His sight becomes hazy, and it is hard to breathe, the scarf covering his face offering but little protection from the smoke and fumes.

He wishes there were screams. Instead he only hears the static between his own ears and the rise and fall of the flames as they grow and eat. Consume. Destroy. He runs, but there is nowhere to run to.

He wants to wake up.

But in this state he will remember, between the sound of his own steps on stone and ash and the need for escape, the weight of someone else. And he will remember it in two ways;

He is holding her, carefully, in his arms, and he is overcome with pain, anger, and guilt. She is cold and warm all at once.

And

He is being held, carried away. In fleeting glances he sees dark hair, and in his own body he feels, for a while, safety and warmth and comfort.

He is still dreaming –

It is raining. There is thunder rolling around somewhere, in the distance, and it's crack is low enough that the sound is numbing. He is covered in mud, and he is covered in blood, and he is widening his eyes in fear. There is a scream and it is from him, and he wishes it were static instead. It tears out of his throat and –

He is no longer dreaming –

He is not covered in blood, and he is not filled with anger, and he is not surrounded by flames. He is trembling, his fists tight and knuckles white. He is drowned in sweat, and he is breathing, quickly and deeply, but it is of clean air, and he does not smell ash and smoke. He hears nothing but the thud of his own heart. His hands find his face and he grasps at it, wiping his eyes and cradling his skull between shaking fingers.

He remembers, ironically, that he does not like to remember.

And he does not like to dream.

 


End file.
